The Manhattan Mauler
by stillgoldie1899
Summary: In the fall of 1899, the streets of New York City are echoing with the headlines of a serial murderer. Called the Manhattan Mauler by the press, this killer is targeting men around Lower Manhattan. The newsies of the city are delighted as headlines roll in, but while the police have no leads, the killer is closer than the newsies know. (Ties in with the Defining Family series.)
1. Chapter 1

"The Manhattan Mauler Strikes Again! Man Found on the Train Tracks Was Missing His Hands!"

On a typical day, the voices of newsboys could drown out almost anything, but for the last few months, they'd taken on an almost frenzied tone. Business was up, dramatically so, because everyone needed to be kept as up to date as possible. There was a serial murderer on the loose, after all. Five bodies, and the police had no leads. The only thing they had to go on was that the men who were killed frequently visited a number of different brothels in the area of Lower Manhattan, and that they were all family men, upstanding, and if not wealthy, at least well off enough. Those in the upper and middle classes were in a frenzy to ensure the police catch the madman, even pressuring the chief to offer a reward for information leading to his capture. But in spite of all of that, no one was coming forward with information. As far as the police knew, the Mauler was a ghost.

The newspapers, of course, were full of theories. The World went with the more plain ones, that the murderer was a butcher, given the level of physical violence, and was highly intelligent. The Sun, however, was running with a different angle, and it was one that was making Jack Kelly wish he was selling for them instead. They seemed to feel the killer was a woman, a prostitute to be exact, who was killing her johns in a rage. No one else was buying it, but the more Jack thought about it, the more he thought that was likely. Why would a butcher kill johns, after all?

Whatever the angle, whatever the headlines, it was only ten am, and Jack was already sold out of the hundred fifty copies of the morning edition he'd bought, cheerfully considering what the afternoon edition would bring as he strolled back towards the distribution center, intending to stop by one of the local sausage carts on his way. These days, having enough left over to buy lunch was commonplace for him. And not just for him, for the others as well. While the rich and the brothel owners were running around like headless chickens, the newsboys and newspaper men of the city were in their glory. Serial murders were better than political assissinations, earthquakes and wars. They lasted longer, first the murders, then the capture, and then the trial and execution. That is, if they caught the guy. They had never caught the Ripper, even though the killings had stopped, and that was fodder for years worth of headlines.

"Hey, Kelly, wait up!" Racetrack's voice, from behind him, made Jack turn, grinning as the shorter boy huffed and puffed to catch up, a bit red in the face. Since the murders started, and the headlines started picking up, Race had been smoking his favorite cigars almost constantly, and it was starting to take a toll on his lungs, from the look of it.

"Out of breath there, Higgins?" Jack laughed as Race leaned against a nearby wall, snagging his hat off of his head to fan himself with, scowling slightly up at the taller boy.

"Nah, I..." He paused to catch his breath, waving in the direction he'd come from. "I was three blocks away, saw your stupid hat and was running to catch up." Grinning, he straightened, his hat getting plunked right back down onto his greased back hair, fishing a cigar and a match out of his pocket, pausing to light it before adding, "So how'd you do today?"

"The Mauler strikes again?" Jack tipped his hat back a bit, grinning broadly, feeling a bit cocky. "Sold out, of course. You?"

"Sold out, of course." Race laughed, and started walking again, shoving his hands into his pockets to pull out the handfuls of change that were weighing him down. "Thank god for this guy. He's keeping me going. 'Cause the races damn sure ain't."

Jack patted him sympathetically on the shoulder as they walked, his grin getting a bit crooked. "Nobody told the horse it was supposed to win?" Race was legendary for picking losing horses at the racetracks over in Sheepshead. Only rarely did he manage to pick the right horse, and even then, the money was long gone a few days later. Race didn't understand the concept of saving.

"Nope. But I still made out alright. Enough for one of those sausage sandwiches from Gutenberg's cart, anyway." Race whistled as they walked, hands in his pocket, the cool fall sun on his face. For him, the world was good. Money in his pockets, headlines he didn't have to fix, and he was rolling in cigars.

"That was my plan, too." They fell into a companionable silence for a few blocks, Race huffing a bit at the pace Jack was keeping, trying to smoke at the same time, and generally failing. To keep from teasing him, Jack cleared his throat, tilting his head a bit. "Hey, do you think the Sun is right?"

"That the Mauler's a woman? God, no. What kind of woman could do that to nearly half a dozen men and not get caught?" Race dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand, laughing a little. For him, as for most of the newsies, it ws clear the killer was a man, a big, violent man, probably drunk, and for each of them, vaguely resembling an uncle or father who was much the same.

"I dunno, Race. I know some women who could do it. Especially if you get 'em angry. I mean, I'm not saying it's Imp, but have you seen that girl angry? She could kill people, easy." The local newsgirls were something of a mystery to most of the boys, they kept to themselves, like a lot of the young ladies in the area did. Newsboys weren't exactly a secure future husband, something the girls really did have to think about. But Imp was one of a few that were a bit different, like his own girl, Sarah, who didn't seem to worry too much about his line of work. With Sarah, it was because she believed he'd do something with his life, but with girls like Imp, it was because they didn't think about their futures in the same way, they didn't worry about things like that. She wasn't the only one, she was just the loudest, the first that came to mind. Although, the longer he thought about it, the more girls he could think of who might fit the profile of a murderer.

"Imp? No, you're right. She could kill someone. Especially if they thought she was robbing them blind, and got violent with her. You think it's Imp?"

Jack smacked the back of Race's head with a sigh. The boy had no sense. "I said I didn't think it was her. She's too damn messy. They'd catch her. I'm just saying, someone like her."

"Oh, well." Race shrugged, rubbing the back of his head with a glare and a sigh. "Whoever it is, I sure hope they don't catch 'em for quite awhile. These headlines are too good to end."

"Yeah, Race. It's all about the headlines." Except, of course, it was. At least, it was for them.


	2. Chapter 2

He was shaking, terror in his wide, brown eyes, tension visible along the lines of his face. He had stopped screaming a bit before, apparently worn out. It was amazing what the loss of several fingers could do to a man. He'd aged years in minutes.

But he hadn't given her the information she needed. It was another dead end, and she was starting to get a bit frustrated. She could tell that he knew it, too. Knew how dangerous it was to frustrate her. The look in her eyes told him all he needed to know.

The monster that had been stalking the city wasn't a butcher, or a sailor on leave, or any of the nonsense that the newspapers were spewing. The monster was a girl, just a tiny girl with knives and a coat worked with wax so the blood would wash off, dark red, so what was left wouldn't show. And that was infinitally more terrifying, for the men, when they realized. When it hit them that the girl they thought they could bully and abuse was the nightmare that hunted them.

Selecting another knife, she moved closer, circling the chair the man was tied to like a shark. He had given her his name, a false one, and she had already forgotten it, much the same way she was sure he had already forgotten hers. She, at least, had given him her real name, knowing it wouldn't matter in the slightest, he wouldn't be walking away, he wasn't going to be given a chance to remember her.

He tried to follow her with his eyes, head swiveling, the panic growing. His breath hitched, voice raw from screaming, vocal chords tearing as he screamed again, barely a sound, air whistling through. Another finger gone, and he finally started praying, silently, that she would end this soon.

She asked him again, the same questions she'd been asking for over an hour, and he pleaded, giving her the same answers, offering to lie if only she'd kill him, let him have some peace. That offer only seemed to infuriate her, and she slashed at him, cutting through clothing and skin and muscle, randomly, angrily, standing right in the way of the splattering blood that escaped him, although by now he had to be getting a bit low on the stuff.

His ear went next, and he panicked, nearly breaking his wrists against the rope lashing him to the chair. He was babbling mindlessly at her, nonsense, pleas for his mother, his wife, his children, for god himself in heaven to save him. It was enough to make her want to cut his tongue out, but that would defeat the purpose, that wasn't what she was here for. Instead, she simply removed another finger, and the babbling turned back into screaming. It continued as she kept circling, repeating her questions, and getting nothing in return. It was obvious he had nothing for her, and continuing to torture him would serve no purpose at all.

He was faintly pleading as she started packing up, putting her kit away, leaving only her personal knife out. Once everything was neatly packed up, she moved back around, tilting his head back, meeting his eyes. He finally seemed resigned, perhaps a bit apologetic, although he'd stopped mumbling. But it wasn't enough. Not even half of enough, for the pain he had inflicted on girls like her, on his wife, for the way he treated his children. He was by no means innocent, and they both knew it.

He didn't make a sound, eyes widening slightly, before closing, head lolling back as she drew her knife across his throat, and once again, stood in the spray of blood. For her, it was her small act of pennance before disposing of the body. The warehouse she used at night would hardly notice the blood once she'd sloshed some water on it, and covered it in sawdust, like the rest of the floor. The police would find the body the next day, at the earliest, and it would take them some time to identify him, and sort out that he was one of the Mauler murders. By then, she'd be gone, vanished into the crowds of the city, back to her real life, her daytime life. Back to looking, back to hunting, back to finding the man she was looking for. She felt no closer to her goal, but there was one less drunken bastard on the streets threatening to hurt another girl like her, and that was something.


	3. Chapter 3

Tibby's was crowded, several of the tables overflowing with newsboys, delighted to be able to afford dinner in real cafe. It was loud and boisterous, and as Jack scanned the room, he spotted Sarah and Goldie, sitting with David and Les at a window table. Waving, he joined then, ruffling Les's hair, plopping a newspaper down on the table.

"Fancy meetin' all of you guys here." Giving Sarah a kiss on the cheek caused David to scowl at him a bit, but Jack ignored him, and settling at the head of the table, rather than squish David in with Les.

"It's nice you boys can afford to treat us." Sarah grinned at Jack as he sat, tucking her hair behind her ears, cheerfully adding, "And the waiter already came by, so we ordered you your usual."

"Meatloaf sandwich." Goldie pipped up, quietly, before falling silent again. The blonde girl, a childhood friend of Jack's, who worked with Sarah at the lace shop, was sitting closest to the window next to Sarah, and until she spoke, Jack wasn't even sure she was listening, her eyes focused on something in the distance.

"Yes, meatloaf sandwich, and a cup of coffee." Sarah agreed, glancing down with a slight scowl at the newspaper. "Oh, for goodness sake, can't you put that away? None of us need to read those horrible headlines at dinner, thank you. I think it's atrocious that they peddle this filth, rather than reporting on things that matter."

"But Sarah, if the newspapers didn't print it, how would the men the killer's goin' after know to stay inside?" Les's eyes were innocently wide, but Jack suspected there was a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

Sarah's matronly scowl, down her nose at her brother, was a hint of the kind of mother she was likely to end up being- stern and severe. "In the first place, Les, those sorts of men are not your concern. Secondly, they do have an obligation to print about crime, I'm just saying it shouldn't be sensationalized the way it is. This kind of... fame is only making the killer more brazen. I mean, the girl at the shop are terrified! They're being inundated with this!"

"The Mauler hasn't ever killed a woman. They're just being silly geese." Again, Goldie spoke without turning away from the window, in a flat, and matter-of-fact sort of tone.

"Fear doesn't have to make sense, Gold." Jack frowned at her, giving her a strange look when she finally turned back to the rest of the table. "It just is. There's a crazy person out there killing people, doing horrible things. Of course they're afraid."

"I'm not afraid!" Les puffed up like a puffin, and his brother elbowed him with a sigh.

"That's because you're also a silly goose, Les."

"You're not helping at all, David. Paying attention to this maniac isn't going to make him go away." Sarah butted in, as the Jacobs siblings dissolved into one of their infamous squabbles, that slowly melted into subject matters far beyond the original one, and quite often were so abstract that Jack had a hard time following. He suspected Les was often as lost as he was, but he kept adding commentary regardless. Grinning at them as David got a bit pink around the ears, and Sarah started leaning more heavily on the table, he couldn't help but feel like he was exactly where he was supposed to be, with friends he considered nearly family.

The food came, and didn't stop the conversation at all, although food was eaten, and other newsboys stopped by to say hello, and join into the conversation for awhile before wandering away. Jack devoured his meal, and leaned back in his chair, watching Sarah's animated face as she heatedly argued the benefit of unions with Skittery, who had made the mistake of sitting next to Les and engaging Sarah and David in a conversation about capitalism.

But as the evening started winding down, and the waitstaff started giving them dark looks, Les curled up, leaning heavily against David, sound asleep, and Jack noticed that Goldie hadn't said much throughout the evening. No one else seemed to notice that the normally talkative girl had been so quiet. It worried him a bit, but he pushed it aside, not wanting to think about it too much. His agreement with the theory that the Mauler was a woman was making him question most of the women in his life, and Goldie was one of the few that he knew quite well, and at the same time, not at all.

She seemed to notice him looking at her, meeting his eyes for a long moment, before pulling up a weak smile, standing with a quiet comment that it was late and she needed to get to bed soon. Sarah hugged her before she left, and It seemed to Jack that David's eyes lingered a bit on the blonde, but then, he wasn't the only boy looking. She was a pretty girl, and willing to talk to a dirty and disheveled pack of newsboys.

Once Goldie left, the others started filtering out, and Jack offered to walk the Jacobs clan home. Arm in arm with Sarah, Les dodging out ahead, David trailing a bit awkwardly off to the side. The moon was up, stars just barely visible over the streetlights and buildings, and once again conversation turned to the Mauler.

"Do you think the Mauler is going to kill again?" David was walking with his hands in his pockets, as deep as he could shove them, bunched up to keep his fingertips as warm as he could.

"I don't think someone like the Mauler can stop. And I like the headlines, you know?" Jack shrugged, and endured the shoulder punch from Sarah.

"Your precious headlines are keeping his depraved, demented soul killing. Honestly. If we stop paying attention to him, he'll stop killing." Sarah seemed very sure of herself, as she finally pulled away from Jack's arm, leaning in to kiss him goodnight.

"I don't think that'll change anything. But we can hope you're right." Grinning, he kissed her again as Les made gagging noises, dragged upstairs by his jacket front by David, who called good nights over his shoulder.

Jack spent a moment enjoying Sarah's lips, his hands carefully at her waist, not wanting to push his luck, before she finally pulled away, with a sigh and a smile, and drifted upstairs, leaving Jack to walk back to the lodging house, hands in his pockets, whistling.


	4. Chapter 4

She sat across from him, arms and legs crossed, eyes narrowed, head tilted slightly as she studied his labored breathing, the hitch in his gasping as he tried, desperately, to pull air into his lungs, clinging to consciousness. He was bleeding sluggishly from various gashes across his face and chest, and he had two knives still in one leg. Every exhalation left a fine spray of additional blood against his lips.

She'd taken a different approach with her questions this time around. Questions about his own life, his family, his wife, daughters. In between, she asked her own questions, hoping that forcing him to open up about himself might distract him enough to get a bit more out of him. As with all of the men who'd come before him, however, he knew nothing about her target.

But she knew about the way his wife hid in the kitchen when he came home in a drunken rage, the way his daughters hid in their rooms, hoping he'd leave them alone. She knew about how pretty he thought his daughter's friends were, the things he wanted to do to them, to innocent girls who simply had the misfortune of being friends with the daughter of a drunken bastard.

He was every bit as much a monster as she was, and if the tables were turned, she knew he'd hurt her as much as she'd hurt him. But she was the one in charge here, and his slumping, shaking shoulders told her he knew he didn't have what she needed, and that she was going to kill him for not his not knowing.

And she would. But she needed a moment to cool off, her anger was starting to get the better of her. She wanted to rip him to pieces, she knew she wouldn't be wrong to do it, but that wasn't exactly what she was trying to accomplish. She was tracking a bigger target, if she lost her control now, she'd get sloppy, she'd get caught. Justice would never be served, and they'd keep right on covering the truth up.

Standing, she moved to the side door, wishing she could allow herself a cigarette, a cool glass of water. But the fall breeze was all she could take at the moment, and as the air hit her skin, she felt her heart slow a bit, her hands, which had been shaking slightly in anger, finally felt steady again.

She was getting no closer, and it was infuriating. All of the time she spent hunting these men down was time she was wasting, and she was running out of it, running out of time. Another girl was missing, one of the whores who worked at the Red Rabbit. She knew the girl, a slight, tiny girl named Penny, dark skin, dark hair, amazingly pretty for a girl who had been forced into a brothel as a girl. She knew the odds that Penny was already dead, and the owner of the Rabbit hadn't even closed his doors for a minute to mourn her. The police didn't care, what was one less whore on the streets? No, it was up to her. She had to find the man doing this, and make him pay, or no one else would.

At first, she, like the police apparently, felt they were just missing, a few girl who just ran away. Who wouldn't run away from a life like theirs? But when Ro turned up missing with no explanation, she knew something was wrong. Her friend, a girl she'd worked with for several years, wouldn't just vanish like that. If Ro had something planned, she'd know about it. So, she started looking, until she found her friend, in the river, mangled and grey. She'd been there, dead, for days, and no one else had bothered to look for her. She tried to tell the police, and at first it seemed like they were going to figure out who had killed her friend. But then they seemed to stop, and another girl went missing. And another. And another. Faceless, nameless, girls that no one cared about, except, it seemed, for her.

There was more to it. There was someone behind this, a single person doing this, and she was going to find out who. She was going to find out, and kill him, and then maybe she'd be able to get a good night's sleep, one without nightmares of Ro, soaking wet, banging on the window next to her bed, bloated and slow, eyes glazed over, white and unseeing, pleading with her to save her, to get her out of the river. Maybe, when the bastard who had killed Ro was dead, she would sleep the whole night. But first, she had to take care of the man behind her, who was still moaning weakly, slumped in his chair.

Returning to her chair, she asked him one final time about the man she was hunting. When he broke down in tears, she knew it was pointless to continue asking him anything. Removing the knives from his legs, she cleaned them, and returned to him, allowing him a moment to pray before tilting his head forward, dragging her knife across his throat, standing in the spray of blood.


End file.
